


Undressing

by Unovis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clothes on, clothes off: John sleeps badly, Sherlock may be a modest man. Contains buttons, mint, and a substance that may be tar.<br/>Completed story in 4 parts. Re-post to AO3 from 2010-2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

John fell out of his clothes at night, bad nights, good nights, in no particular order. Kicked off his shoes without untying laces. Half the time, for half his jeans, pushed them down without fully unfastening, over his sore (no longer sore) leg and socks. Unbuttoned cuffs, collar if needed, then the whole lot, shirt and jumper or whatever pulled over his head in one and dropped. Rolled into bed, in pants and socks and vest. It didn't all stay on, under the covers.

It wasn't good for his shirts. He had loosened buttons everywhere.

Mornings were different. Gathered clothes from the floor and foot of the mattress, untangled, brushed, put away if clean enough; sorted into the laundry duffle if not. Changed to his skin, after his shower and shave and teeth. Put on in order: socks, then boxers, then vest/T-shirt, then jeans, then belt, then shirt, then knitwear, then shoes. Unknotted and retied shoes. Then watch. Mornings were beginnings, evenings were ends. The between, after end before beginning, the sink to black and the struggle, was nothing he'd acknowledge with a regimen.

Especially in Baker Street.

He didn't know if Sherlock had a routine. Hadn't thought about it. Much. Their sitting room was an extension of Sherlock's bedroom, their kitchen was an extension of Sherlock's bedroom and the lab at Barts, and their bathroom was an extension of Sherlock's bedroom and the kitchen and Barts and, one memorably odiferous night, the London Aquarium. Sherlock slept, when he slept, anywhere. When he'd succumbed to fatigue during a case…and it did happen, John was witness…or immediately after, he had collapsed in his coat, in his suit, in shirtsleeves (freezing, under an open window), in pajamas and dressing-gown. On the couch, across the table, on the carpet, or even locked away in his room, presumably in his bed. Which John had never seen.

He was, however carelessly he disposed himself, a modest man. Or cold, maybe he was cold. He never exited the bathroom in a state of undress. He never…John had never seen his unclothed legs. He'd seen his bared shoulder, once, when John insisted on dressing a nasty gash Sherlock could not reach himself. He did it through the ravaged shirt; and was lucky his patient submitted to that. Sherlock did not walk around naked, as had every other male, on occasion, with whom John had shared living space since age 12. School: naked. Hospital: naked. Army: naked. Men. Right? It wasn't pretty, but it was natural. Normal. Right?

Normal: Sherlock. Right.

But his clothes. His clothes were always neat. Brushed, unwrinkled, clean. Perfectly matched. When he wasn't stalking around or sleeping in them, they were away somewhere. Head in the fridge, check. Büchner funnel on the orange juice. Nicotine patches in a Turkish slipper. Teabags under the skull. Papers on every horizontal surface. Rotting nurse shark in the bath. But not so much as a stray sock in any area they shared. Shoes polished, never abandoned under the couch. How did he do it? When?

None of his business.

Not unnatural his curiosity. The consequence of living with a deductive genius, after all, was closer attention paid to behavior and physical details.

Was his modesty a mask? Driven by shame? Had he something to hide? Scars? Tattoos? (made him smile at Sherlock's middle button; made Sherlock, putting on his coat, drill him with a glance) Was it some aesthetic sense? He must look...acceptable nude, if thin. Lean. Thick in the bottom, though, plush in the seat, more than you'd expect from his overall build. John's fingers curled; naturally.

He didn't imagine Sherlock naked. He didn't look at him speculatively, sideways, from his vantage point at the table, pecking at his laptop. He particularly didn't look at him when he fell asleep on the couch, flat out, arm across his eyes or curled up, face in the cushions, whuffling. Rump out, like a child. Legs sprawled. Breast... It wasn't just his bottom that was round, then. Where he expected flat planes and ridges there were curves, there was a swell under his fine, taut shirt, dotted in the cold by a peaked... He didn't look. But he did cover the annoying sod with the woolly throw and the tartan blanket with the scorch mark on the corner and dropped his coat and the tea towel on top for good measure. He had elegant, long feet.

***

Sherlock watched John and John watched him back.

Not as well.

Naturally.

John was a creature of habit. He was also adaptable, manipulable, within parameters. His established structures allowed for play, for tolerable stresses. Sherlock was still cataloguing his limits; he might not get them all. The stresses were not all recent or related to Sherlock or known.

John slept badly. (Sherlock heard the louder nightmares; inferred other disruptions from headboard creaks or feet hitting the floor above Sherlock's bed, from the hallway carpet, from the bathroom tap.) The most obvious tell made the rest superfluous: the worse John's night, the more carefully he was groomed and dressed the next morning. His favoring geometric patterns in his shirts (his watch face square; his pockets straight) beneath soft textures and colors was interesting but possibly random. Metaphor had its uses, but only to a point.

John's nightmares had increased after the incident at the pool. So had his furtive looks at Sherlock, which was a curiosity not worth pressing. The habit could change. Or be changed, if Sherlock bothered with it. He'd rather not change anything about John, now. He'd rather not examine why.

Possibly not furtive. Possibly unconscious and corrected when John noticed he was doing it. If he were tired and his reflexes had slowed. Possibly he was only reassuring himself that Sherlock was...there.

He'd been careless with John. He'd liked that he could be careless with John. He wasn't sure if taking more care with him would mean he could never be careless again.

Under John's tightly woven checked and striped shirts his body was scarred. His scars were not straight or regular. They were more pronounced and larger than Sherlock's. The one on his shoulder, where he'd been shot, looked like a starfish or a slender four-tentacled mollusk. There were pitted marks from glass or metal shards on the back of his upper arms. There was a needle mark from an infected jab (field administered?) inside his elbow and a faded line from an old cut with a blade that curved over one rib. Early on, three times under Sherlock's observation, he'd left the bathroom in only a towel around his hips. He'd left his bedroom door open while dressing while talking to Sherlock (he objected to the smell of rotting shark; he objected to the bath tub being unusable for a single day and night; he objected to drops of blood--not even human --on the kitchen floor). He'd uncovered himself unselfconsciously when he first moved in, and then at some point he stopped. Maybe he was cold. The weather was colder outside their home. But it was another thing Sherlock hoped he would change by himself. John's body was good, solid, reassuring to catch sight of. And Sherlock would like to verify if there was another scar on the base of John's spine or if it had been a shadow.

Sherlock thought about John's habits when he dressed himself. John wore more clothing than Sherlock did and took longer to get dressed. Three minutes longer, on average. John wore belts. Sherlock would like… he would prefer John to dress quickly and carelessly or not at all; not to come down to breakfast buttoned and belted up; to be comfortably unclothed; to spend Sundays in his pajamas (did John have pajamas?), making them tea, listening to Sherlock, ready for the chase. He would like John to sleep through the night without fear. He would like to cover John, the way John covered him, protected him, from the nonexistent cold of their own sitting room, on their own couch, with two blankets, a coat, and a tea towel over his bare feet.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a good look, rinsing off the grit.

 

"I would have thought," said Sherlock, gasping against the door frame, "that it was obvious, even to the meanest intelligence…"

"Oh, shut up."

"That when I say 'run'…"

"Run _where,_ you…"

" _Away from the flaming pool of flaming tar..._ "

" _Into the fucking maniac with the flaming…flameflinger?_ "

"Thrower. Flamethrower, fucking flaming flamethrower, is what you're reaching for," said Lestrade, behind them. He coughed. "And it wasn't. Your housekeeper would like a word, when I'm through." He planted a hand in Sherlock's back and pushed him ahead, through the door, into the sitting room. Sticky, sooty, smoky, smelly, tracking across the carpet, adhering to the papers and scattered photographs to stumble to a stop. Stepping on John, who was trying to scrape his shoes off his feet without touching them. Not technically flaming tar it wasn't, not technically tar, but something black and viscous and certainly af ire around the edges, where it wasn't swirled into some kind of reeking oil; John falling into it, between beams and gravel heaps on the construction site. Falling with the scream of something biting into concrete behind them and Sherlock hurling himself head over heels on top of him. Ruined, the both of them, tripping and rolling from the muck into the just-poured trough of cement. "Caldo torch, in fact. You owe Sgt. Dwyer your sorry skins for clocking him with that brick."

"If you'd run right-right-east where I was pointing…"

" _Behind my back…"_ John stepped on Sherlock's foot; Sherlock pushed him off with a squelching elbow to the stomach. They wobbled and clutched each other. Glared. But held on.

Lestrade circled the two bickering idiots and settled himself in the leather chair. "You shouldn't have been anywhere, left or right or up the fucking wall. We had it well in hand. Wasn't a rush. We found the cooked account files."

"Another body. Beneath the lime sacks. The surveyor." Sherlock squirmed, trying to detach his sodden jacket sleeve from his arm. "Also a leg. Help," he snapped at John.

John dripped black sludge from what had been a leather jacket and a shirt that had been red and blue. They were both black and blobby gray and best not be bleeding underneath. He took hold of Sherlock's jacket by the rear collar and yanked and Sherlock hissed in pain. Another hard pull peeled the sleeves down, away from the fine, splattered shirt. Beautiful charcoal jacket, once. Now a greasy lump of cloth. Who wears a suit to investigate a homicidal building site supervisor? At your actual building homicidal site? Sherlock fucking Holmes.

"…lime sacks. Right, check on it, let me know," said Lestrade into his phone. He rubbed his hand over his face, because he could without leaving a smear of crud in its wake. "All right, boys. Got you home as promised. Clean up and explain."

"Bin liners under the sink," ordered Sherlock. He pulled at his shirt front and then his trouser fastenings. He grimaced and bent to his shoes.

"Oh, yes?" said Lestrade. John was already shuffling into the kitchen. Carpet was destroyed, probably. He wouldn't let rooms to Sherlock and company for love nor money. "So the supervisor did for the surveyor, too? John, any chance…"

"No," said John. "Whatever you want, fetch it yourself." He dumped his jacket on a chair and shook out a bag for his shoes and clothes. Found some cloths and ran the tap.

"He'd be more spectacularly stupid than you are, if he did. He didn't kill them; he was hiding the bodies."

"Tried to kill you," said Lestrade. Sherlock undressing was an interesting sight. Shoes, socks, trousers, shirt; folded or paired (socks inside shoes facing together; north-south?) and laid down, filthy and neat.

"He was cutting up the corpses to fit the concrete form when we interrupted. He's in disposal, not termination. Where the hell are those bags?"

Lestrade hated information doled out by the spoonful. "Who, then? John, are you privy to this?"

John was altogether quicker shucking his clothes, apparently directly into a bulging plastic bag. Lestrade hadn't noticed any stages. He just emerged from the kitchen in his boxers, face clean, chest streaked, carrying the box of bin liners and a couple of wrung out cloths. He walked over to Sherlock and tossed down the bags. Then the two of them squared off, staring. Like they'd never seen each other before.

"You've got thin," accused Sherlock.

"You've got legs," said John. "Knees and all. If you'd let me finish a meal more often, I might be thicker."

"Unlikely." The piss evaporated, with Sherlock's interest in the case. John had his full attention.

John scowled, but didn't drop his eyes. He threw Sherlock a cloth. "Hands and face. No cuts?" He came across into Sherlock's space, looking with purpose, scanning him up and down as Sherlock swabbed around his eyes and mouth and dropped the cloth. Took hold of him by the shoulders (Lestrade hadn't dared handle him like that; Sherlock took it like a kid, elbows tucked to his sides) and turned him around to see all angles. "Abrasions?" He pulled out the waistband of Sherlock's boxers between finger and thumb and glanced down, giving Sherlock's bum a quick, searching look. Released the waistband with a little pat. Did the doctor treat children at the clinic? "Check your front. Don't touch if the skin's broken."

Sherlock's face was a study as he did as told, looking at himself, and Lestrade would have caught a photo if he hadn't fumbled his phone. But he would have missed Sherlock snagging John's pants behind and dragging them down, snapping the elastic and looking smug as he sidestepped John's swat. "Good to know," said Sherlock. "First shower's mine." And the bastard walked out to the stairs, greasy mop, long back, white arms, naked legs, bare feet, John tracking him all the way out. And then following behind, frowning and smiling, pulling up his pants.

"Still here," called Lestrade.

***

It was another scar, a shallow furrow from shrapnel, not a shadow, and Sherlock was pleased to know. And John, leaner, annoyed and arguing, looked _good_. Good to see. It was all good, now, after all. Case solved, all but the boring arrest, but what were police for? Less a ruined suit of clothes and shoes that were damaged beyond repair and someone would pay for replacement. But John thinner than he'd estimated, and he should have been right about that, watching him…thinner inside his tightened clothes, all tight, all buttoned and belted and tied this week…was maybe not good. John, who ran the wrong way and fell and Sherlock ending up over him. Both a mess. Maybe he only needed feeding. Feeding meant sleep? Maybe Sherlock needed to interfere finally, cause change, do something to stop what ever kept John breaking up at night and being less help during the day.

He raised his arms and pain struck across his ribs; his lower right rib, bruised or cracked. Less good. He passed a hand through his hair, wet, stinking under the hot water needle spray, stinging his eyes, greasy, gritty. He was tired, his body was sore, he was filthy and only partially and slowly coming clean. He would have liked right now to be properly scrubbed, to be bathed, to have someone else's hands taking on the chore. Lying back in the tub being soaped and sponged and rinsed in warm courses of water poured over him. Someone's hands, slick, thick with suds, sliding into, rubbing through his hair…he winced, hitting another sore spot on his scalp, under the thin film of shampoo. He'd once… He could imagine. Strong hands, gentle hands.

Irrelevant. He was clean enough. He could see the slope of his chest, his belly, his thighs and legs (knees and all), his feet, fairly white and wet and clean enough. Hot water enough left for John.

John looked _good_. And handled him with strong and gentle hands, with a ridiculous pat to his waist that was tolerable, from him; it was all right. The water hit his teeth.

Lestrade was quizzing John outside the bathroom door, buzzing like a bluebottle. The name, he wanted a name. The silly murderer who was surely deceased by now, if he was right about the tattoo on the extra leg. And far less interesting to discover than the supervisor had been. Sherlock rubbed himself half dry, painfully, and wrapped the towel around his hips. He opened the door and John fell in; leaning against it, barring Lestrade's way. Unnecessary. He'd have talked to Lestrade in the bath. From behind the curtain. He glanced at Lestrade's hands. Intelligent, tapered, fine; capable; nothing new: still smoking, still alone, still drinking. Bitten and filed smooth thumbnail. And by the time he turned to look at John's hands, he'd pushed past (lean but warm, and leaving grit on Sherlock's damp arm) and shut the door.

"Fletcher. Aldous Fletcher," he gave Lestrade. Pajamas, dressing gown. John.

"Fletcher? The…who, the waiter?"

"Catering trailer. Test that leg." Pajamas, dressing gown, John. He showers quickly, but then he might brush his teeth. Time enough. Sherlock crossed the corridor to John's neat, bare room, through John's door, to John's dresser. Neat, bare; shirts in the second drawer, jumpers below. He pulled out the top drawer: underwear, socks…

"The leg's Fletcher's and Fletcher murdered Grant? And the surveyor? And the rest of Fletcher?"

No pajamas in the dresser. Bottom drawer with his jeans half occupied by a burgundy track suit, strikingly ugly, strikingly un-John, obviously a gift, and nothing Sherlock cared to look at even wrapped around his overly tense flatmate. Shower still running, but water was about to cool. Dressing gown hanging at the back of the cupboard, tartan red and black wool he'd never seen, just as well, mildly unpleasant looking and last worn…at Christmas. It was the required garment. But was it comfortable? Conducive to rest? He pulled it out, pulled it on. The towel fell and he kicked it aside.

"Sherlock!"

"Go away." Stiff, wool blend; he could smell the fabric finisher, so not worn enough to be cleaned; coarse against his skin, rough on his…front, so not really good enough.

"I will take you in for withholding evidence if I don't get the full, connected story in five seconds, you flopping lunatic." Sherlock shoved his hands in the patch pockets and turned, experimentally. And John, it seemed, did not brush his teeth.

***

There was a black and iridescent sediment in the tub that John had no intention of scrubbing out. Not tonight. Little lumps of cement and gravel caught in the drain made the water rise to his ankles. And the last clean towel departed with Sherlock, so a used one had to be fished from the hamper, and it wasn't the one John had used last, and it had some greenish stain soaked into its edge that looked unpleasantly organic. He wrapped it around his hips, wishing disease and discomfort on his flatmate of the (authenticated) un-flat derriere. He was tired, he was sore, he was hungry, and he wanted nothing more than whiskied tea and something hot and bland telly and bed. God bless, to sleep.

He heard voices from the corridor. His bedroom door was open, framing Lestrade sitting on his bed, framing Sherlock in that damned ugly dressing gown, hands clenched in its pockets, turning and looking disappointed that its hem didn't flare like his own dramatic coat. He stopped, seeing John. "Pajamas," said Sherlock, as if it meant something.

"Belt up," said John. That was a long streak of Sherlock exposed there, from collarbones to knees between the open flaps of patterned wool, and though instructive, it was a disconcerting sight. Rather more odd than fully naked and John wondered how he'd thought him a modest man. He was not staring at black curls anywhere, he was not coloring up. He was looking away. "What the hell are you doing in my clothes?" seemed like a sensible question.

"Testing my patience," said Lestrade.

"Don't move," Sherlock said, to John presumably, and swept past him, dressing gown flapping, Lestrade in tow, out and down the stairs. John heard "Fletcher's the brains, you pathetic lot can sort that out. Get names from the supervisor, threaten him with arresting his son…" before he lost the thread. Fletcher, of course. He shivered and grimaced. Clothing, however necessary, seemed a great deal of unpleasant trouble. His drawers had been opened and haphazardly shut; he'd insist Sherlock explain. Socks, pants, T-shirt, jeans, he pulled out and laid on the bed. The flat door closed, behind Lestrade, he hoped. He pulled out his jumper drawer, belt in his hand, when the pest of Baker Stree t breezed back through his bedroom door, brandishing clothes on his arm.

"Pajamas," said Sherlock, dropping a pair on his bed. "Dressing gown." He shook the fistful of gray flannel under John's nose. "Loan only. Tomorrow you buy your own." He looked at the clothes on the bed. "Do you always…"

"I have one already and you took it. I don't wear pajamas. It's only afternoon," he began. But the pajama bottoms looked soft and uncomplicated and generic. Not when he'd seen them on Sherlock, who paraded them like a cross between a mental patient and lounge lizard, but lying across his jeans. He'd never seen the dressing gown before. But, "Why are we playing dress up?" he asked. He was getting cold. He picked up his socks and it was all still far too intricate. He sighed and turned his back and dropped the towel and picked up his boxers. Out of order.

"It's horrible. I've confiscated it for the public good." Sherlock was covered decently now, white buttoned shirt and pajama trousers under the blue striped dressing gown. He draped the pajamas insistently over John's shoulder (out of order! socks, shirt!) and John shrugged and pulled them on, pulled everything, finally on. The dressing gown was soft; it felt like an old blanket he remembered, like his stuffed rabbit; it smelled of … "Peppermint?"

"Hungry?" asked Sherlock. At this angle, his face was childish, chinless, curved. Canny.

"You're demented," said John. "Yes. Thank you, I think. What's wrong with your side?"

Sherlock had been pulling damp curls away from his forehead, rubbing the hair between his fingers. He reached for John's hair and John stepped out of reach. "What's wrong with your side? Muscles hurt?" he asked again. There was pain in Sherlock's mouth, when he moved a certain way. He sat down on the bed.

"Rib, probably. Nothing important. Tandoori?"

"Show me," said John.

Sherlock leaned against the bed, knee opposite John's knees, arms crossed. "You looked down my pants."

"Checking for a tail. Shirt up. Which rib?"

The man had been naked and mostly naked without protest within the hour, and now he was uncomfortable with this? Pale eyes flicked over John's face, the mobile mouth quirked, and Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. Putting on a T over his head would have hurt, John thought. Sherlock spread the right side of his shirt open and pointed. "There. I've cracked one before; know what it feels like."

John passed his hand over the place. Easier to see, now the body was clean. "Deep breath." Well, it hurt, they knew it would. But maybe not enough. And he'd been talking all right. "Could be bruised, only. Arnica tonight, and an X-ray tomorrow." He kept his hand on Sherlock's side, Sherlock watching his face. Moved the shirt further aside.

There. Almost under his arm, at the side. In a carefully placed line, one under another, three small scars. Burns; from the lit end of a cigarette, if John knew anything. His thumb stroked under them, pulling, and Sherlock didn't flinch. Old scars, made long ago, into younger skin and flesh.

"Is he dead?" asked John, and Sherlock answered "No," before he'd finished speaking.

"Say the word," said John. He curved his hand to fit his side, then took it away. He buttoned up Sherlock's shirt. "Any time."

Sherlock looked amused. "You're a bloody man, Dr Watson."

"I'm a bloody doctor, Mr Holmes. Your doctor. Anything else?"

"It hurts to wash my hair." Those eyes, those lips. John wasn't buying.

"Tandoori's fine," he said. "Or something frozen, if we've anything in. Something mild."

"Warm milk before bed," said Sherlock.

"That's for kids," said John, standing. The gray comfy dressing gown, he noticed, was shorter than expected; shorter in the arm, much shorter in length than Sherlock's other two. Peppermint?

"I hate arnica," said Sherlock mutinously, pushing John before him out the door.

***


	3. Chapter 3

 

1\. Sherlock was stealing John’s buttons. This was odd, even for him.  
2\. John had a preference for a shapely bottom over a graceful leg or bouncing breast. At the moment, he wasn’t spoiled for choice.  
3\. Dressing gowns were for invalids and the institutionalized. John had discarded his fine brown striped one with his cane. He had hidden Harry’s unwanted, unattractive gift (you need it!) guiltily at the back of his cupboard, until Sherlock routed it out.  
4\. Peppermint tea was a more effective aid to sleep than warm milk. Sachets tucked in his pillow, John speculated, might work as well.  
5\. There were dreams and there were dreams.

 

***

1\. John’s buttons, tightly sewn or falling off, pattern of done or undone, were worthy of study.  
2\. Sherlock’s hair, he was convinced, was not yet entirely clean. Barber, possibly. When he had time.  
3\. John had had no valid reason to look down Sherlock’s pants.  
4\. Dreams were u nreliable, so best avoided.  
5\. John’s hair smelled ~~lovely~~ of mint.

***

Doctor-Captain John Watson knew all about uniforms, the wearing of and the reasons for. He was also coming to know Sherlock’s baselines, the cables running through the chaos. Sherlock wore uniforms, from his specific, limited wardrobe. Out of the blue, yesterday, Sherlock had wrapped John insistently in Sherlock’s own clothes, in one of Sherlock’s particular uniforms. Pajamas and dressing gown, it seemed, were now required dress for them both, in their home institution of the mad, after a near-death experience (no, they’d had that before)—after clothing had been destroyed? after one and a fifth bodies had been discovered under sacks of lime? after Sherlock decided it was so? John let it pass, that night. He wore the uniform of relaxation or tar survival or memorial to wrecked clothes. He ate the unusually abundant takeaway from their favorite Indian place and drank the noxious hot milk toddy before retiring, under Sherlock’s hawk-like stare. And he removed the pajamas as silently as he could and slept in his underwear. He left the borrowed clothes hanging on the bedpost nearby. He fell asleep to the scent of peppermint; he may have dreamed of a toy rabbit, hopping happily through burning tar.

Ordering pajamas and a dressing gown online was mandated the next day, with Sherlock’s ruthless help. Solid colors, John was told. Blue, to match his eyes. That John changed to brown stripes. That Sherlock changed back to solid blue. John argued that matching the wearer’s eyes to his pajamas was a ridiculous idea for the person actually in the silly things, as he wasn’t given to gazing at himself in the mirror; that he liked stripes, that most of the pajamas they’d seen were striped, which seemed to set some standard for nightwear as a class (and Sherlock’s blue robe was striped, which John did not mention having noticed); and that if this nonsensical exercise were really necessary, then he preferred the brown ones (that looked nothing like anything Sherlock wore). And that he didn’t need pajamas, he didn’t wear pajamas, he’d had a dressing gown, two dressing gowns, he didn’t wear a dressing gown, and what he should be buying were jeans to replace the oil-soaked disasters he’d lost yesterday. Sherlock frowned and said he was, not unusually, missing the point. What point? John demanded, and Sherlock leaned forward (brushing curls across John’s eyebrow and warmth on his cheek, derailing thought and breath and all objections) and stabbed the Enter key.

A navy blue dressing gown was ordered while John was in the kitchen making tea. Triumphant, Sherlock glanced pointedly at John’s neck and waist and sailed out, off to Barts. John sat tapping on the laptop edge for a minute, finishing his cup. Then he backtracked and canceled the dressing gown and changed the orders to a not-awful pair of gray sweatpants and a brown and black striped shirt.

John realized, once at work, that he’d left off his tie and belt. Sherlock did not leave Barts to show up for his X-ray ( _Green corpse. Want to see? SH_ ). During the day, John caught himself touching his eyebrow, the third time with his eyes closed. At the end of his shift, John asked Sarah to dinner; or the cinema; movie and dinner, nothing formal, nothing, ah, expected? She said no. John touched his eyebrow and looked at her hips as she walked away. On his way home, he bought bread and butter and sliced ham and a box of peppermint tea.

***

John was more interesting than the green corpse; more subtle and difficult to predict.

His buttons. He’d lost three buttons from his shirts before the day they’d fallen in tar and Sherlock took one by accident the next morning. Almost accident; he pulled, testing its looseness, and it came off and he palmed it. He did it when (he was a multitasking _genius_ ) he leaned across John’s shoulder to order his new clothes. Examined at Barts, it told Sherlock nothing he did not already know, except that John had changed laundry soap. As that brand was not as mild as advertised yet still not corrosive enough to dissolve thread, the fact was insignificant. He dropped the button into his jacket breast pocket and deliberately acknowledged the pleasure of having a bit of John’s clothing pressed inside his own.

Pleasure, in Sherlock’s experience, resisted analysis.

As, on occasion, did pain. Whereas John’s limp and the tremor in his hand rarely recurred, his nightmares had persisted. Their timing was irregular, though generally they did not interrupt a deep, peaceful sleep. Such as last night’s. Sherlock had looked in on John at 3 a.m. He’d noted the shucked pajamas on the bedpost, the dressing gown clutched to John’s sleeping nose.

Prior research on PTSD nightmare treatment had yielded little that could be effected from a distance or through suggestion. There were many references to “therapy” that required intimate discussions with the sufferer. John had quit his therapist after a climactic row, the details of which he refused to discuss. Someone should be found who could talk to the man. When Sherlock was bored, or had time, he’d think about it.

John had laid hands on him, looked at his body. He was protective, retroactively protective, even, which served no purpose. For no physical reason Sherlock understood, the feeling of John’s hand curved around his side (for comfort? from disapproval?) had lingered for the rest of that night. He could feel it when he tried to sleep. When he abandoned the effort and checked on the sleeping man. He could recall it easily the next day, the exact shape and contour and texture of John’s hand.

John was intransigent about acquiring at-ease wear in which to be…at ease. To wear instead of his everyday clothing, instead of too much clothing, too tightly wrapped after bad nights. That might prevent further bad nights, Sherlock had hypothesized. From a computer terminal at Barts, Sherlock checked that morning’s order and saw the changes John had made. Doggedly, he restored the original; and added to the cotton set a proper pair of pajama trousers. Blue. Silk. Striped. To match Sherlock’s dressing gown.

***


	4. Chapter 4

***

**He shot him three times, the bullet holes like buttons down his side, between the wings of his dressing gown, the blood flowing down to stiffen the black curls below his belly. And he looked down at himself and John dropped his gun and the wall fell like a curtain between them.**

**_Wrong._   
**

**He was dressed, they were dressed, he was wrapped striped, strapped, with Semtex bands around his chest, and the gun in his hand safe, they were safe...and the red dots buttoned his hair and chest and the gun shooting a vacant grin in ...**

**_Moriarty_ was in front of him, _Sherlock_ was behind...no, Moriarty’s back to his front, his arm around his throat...no, his arm...no, arm around...gun, his gun, in Sherlock’s hand and the bands stripped away, clothes ripping off, his bottom round and smooth, and people, people would shoot.**

 

***

John’s feet hit the floor again, for the second time that night. Something was kicked, something muffled by the carpet, before the bed creaked, and quiet returned. Ridiculous, thought Sherlock.

The parcel delivered while Sherlock was out lay accusingly on the desk, its contents rifled and replaced. John had shaken out the blue silk pajama bottoms, at least. They were, in reality, a shade darker than Sherlock’s dressing gown and an even better match to John’s eyes. Relaxation rejected, in nightwear form.

Under everything, of course, they were naked. All the time. This was something that Sherlock understood possibly more completely, and more constantly, than John. Sherlock’s daily dress was as good as going naked. It was the he-ness of he. It was practically—and he meant “in practice” not “very nearly”—invisible, once, pre-considered, it had been selected and put on. And then forgotten, in the natural order of things. So with his coat, so with his suits, and so, he frowned along his long, crossed legs on the cushions, with his pajamas and dressing gown.

(This was not to say, he told himself, needlessly, that a Sherlock clothed was not an impressive sight. No less than a Sherlock naked would be.) (Or would be, nearly naked. He contemplated his constellations of scars. He contemplated erasing [burning away] his physical history, as he claimed to erase his hard drive. He contemplated ... he recalled, all uncalled for, the feel of John’s hand against his side.)

John thought he was covering his body, trussing himself up, concealing his fissures and pain; but his dress, his varied choices, only broadcast his state more clearly. John naked, on the other hand (Sherlock slanted a glance at his own hand, his right hand, lying on his breast), was...was... Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to reconstruct John’s body, his essential John. Irritatingly, for theorizing and comparison, the image eluded him. Meaning, not metaphor, he scolded himself. He had better things to think about. And then the timer dinged.

As he was already in the kitchen, he filled the kettle, balancing it on top of the toaster, shoved to one side of the sink. Tea could be an aid to concentration. Or not, where envisioning John naked was concerned. John naked was _good._ Full stop. That was...elementary. That would be John _relaxed,_ that would be John unafraid, that would be John in the natural order of things, and looking at him...Sherlock coughed. He’d seen John altogether shortly after he moved in and was apparently used to nakedness in the company of men and was completely unembarrassed to yell at Sherlock about some twaddle or other while his penis swayed in indignation (and Sherlock had not smiled) and his face flushed with annoyance while the scar on his shoulder was an unchanging purple and white. That was John’s front, naked, and his back seen fleetingly once as he stumped from the bath to his bedroom as Sherlock had been occupied with dropping a bloody-soled carpet slipper down the stairs. Not seen clearly, as he was quickly then faced with John’s turnaround naked front again, similarly annoyed... so, _not_ relaxed. He had not seen John naked and relaxed, fact. Why had he changed?

Did John...

And then clatter _sizzle POP_   the lights went out.

 

***

“What…who!”

“Me.”

John clutched the sheet, blinking at blackness. His heart pounded. His hairline was wet. The body, the person, at the edge of his bed was…not the dream. Sherlock. Right. Dark darkness; where was the clock? The window’s light? “Where…”

“Power’s out,” said Sherlock. “No lights, no kettle. Get up. Come downstairs.”

“No.” No lights, no kettle? Did John need the kettle? He shoved back against the pillows, up, sitting up, and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Sparks. No lights. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” It was his slow, drawling voice. John sighed.

“What have you done?”

Body, closer. Hand to his head, rubbing his damp hair between fingers; John jerked back, banging his head on the headboard. Sherlock made a noise, a whuff of displeasure. “Don’t assume this was my fault. I was passing current through a tongue…”

“No.” His night vision was strengthening. He could make out Sherlock’s face, hair, dressing gown. Hands and face.

“Yes.” Slowly again. “In the sink.”

“No.”

“Come down and light the fire. Find a torch. Batteries.”

“No.” John pulled the duvet up, across his chest. “It’s night. I’m tired, I’m going back to sleep. You fix it.”

“You weren’t asleep.” The whuff again, and the body, Sherlock’s, weighing down the bed, dropping next to him; cold silk against his arm now, and Sherlock under it. Sherlock, indifferent to personal space, pushing onto, into, his bed, settling himself and pulling the duvet across his feet. “Someone will phone it in. The street is out, maybe more; this could well be coincidence.” A flap of long hand, white in the dark. A darker halo of curls against a white jaw, shadow of lips.

“Oh, hell.” Too close to the dreams, too close to him. “Go to bed. Go to _your_ bed.” Sherlock turned his head to look at him. John frowned. “Go play with your phone. Where’s your phone?”

“Charging.” Oh, breath from him speaking, warm on his cheek. “You had another nightmare. Two. Your hair is damp.” A shift in tone: “How did you clean your hair?” And theft of a pillow, from behind his back. And Sherlock _smelling_ it.

“Sherlock. What the hell…”

“Why do…does it work? It doesn’t work. Why…” scrabbling sound “teabags?”

John sighed, again, and shifted, again; but there was no escaping Sherlock’s sprawling thigh and pressing knee, and piercing attention. “You’re bored,” John said. “Go play with…”

“Not yet,” said Sherlock, flipping the pillow behind his own back. “Now, it seems, I have time. What did your therapist recommend?”

“Bugger off.”

“Doubtful. Did she check for REM behavior disorder? Order a polysomnograph?”

“Leeches. Electrodes.”

“Cognitive restructuring? Imagery rehearsal? Drugs?”

“Cognitive…let it go. I’m fine.”

“Clearly not. You’re losing buttons. You’re wearing stripes.”

Eyes glinted in the white oval of his face; lips thinned. Concern? Unwarranted, intrusive. Stripes and buttons. “They’re only bad dreams. They’ll go away.”

“Thirty-eight percent of soldiers with PTSD within a year…”

“Oh fucking Google hell! Stop. It’s not...”

“Not what?” Sharp. Angry? “Not your injury? Not the war?” Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, the duvet with him, dislodging it from John’s half of the bed, leaving John’s far side exposed. John’s entirely unclothed side as it happened, this restless night.

“No,” said John, pulling the covers straight. “They’ll go away. Trust me.”

“What do you dream about, if not the war?” pressed Sherlock. The space between them, little as it was, heated up. A caloric expense of curiosity.

“You,” said John. He tucked the regained duvet under his colder side, toward the window. “Imagery rehearsal didn’t work,” he added, helpfully, to the silent eyes, the shadow mouth. “Shooting you only makes it worse.”

_Not all Sherlock, all the time. Yes, tonight, but not all—the war was still there. Loss and confinement, walls and locked doors; crumbling plaster and wood held up by his hands, against fire, deserted and the enemy outside; chained to a chair, gun to his head, lasers to his chest, his men in danger; bloodied hands, bloody shoulder, bloody leg, running, lost; screaming through a window; bombs falling on the planetarium. Pounding on doors, on walls, with his men, with Sherlock somewhere, beyond the other side._

On his other side, now, over the duvet. Quiet.

“Go away,” said John.

How do you change the truth, even in a dream? How do you not get shot when you were shot, how do the dead not die when you couldn’t save them? Imagery rehearsal hadn’t worked with the war dreams. It didn’t work with this new crop, except to make them worse. And he’d rather not think of those outcomes now, thank you, with Sherlock’s silk shoulder shoved next to him, with Sherlock’s hips against him and feet anchoring his duvet, with white face and eyes and shadow lips, black curls and white neck against his stolen pillow, and John tucked naked hard by. Bad dreams were less fatal.

He slumped down, turned on his side, pulled the duvet up, put his pillow over his head. Over, out.

Sherlock didn’t move.

It wasn’t as bad, when he wasn’t talking, when he wasn’t looking at him, having him there. He was there; and John fell back to sleep.

 

***

John was an idiot. Stubborn. And more than capable of rising from his bed and making do. Soldiers were better at improvising fire and food and tea under primitive circumstances; they w ere trained for it. Consulting detectives were not. Sherlock frowned. There were cooking pots he recalled, dubiously, somewhere behind the kitchen cupboard doors.

What did he mean, _You_?

Tea, damnable tea. 

*

“You’re not doing it right,” said Sherlock, nudging John with his knee. Tea was on the bedside table. Sherlock had brought two mugs upstairs without spilling; easier to do in the dark, when one was not tempted to look at the surface of the container, which often caused the hand to tilt. He’d wobbled when he’d walked into a shirt, discarded on the bedroom carpet, snagged around his foot. The highly informative shirt, now spread on Sherlock’s lap.

“Nfff.”

John hadn’t moved since Sherlock left. He was still curled on his side, pillow over his head. Hand gripping the edge of the duvet, the same hand that had touched Sherlock’s ribs. Ribs that had not been cracked or even severely bruised. Sore, indeed. Ice, not arnica. He hated the nursery smell of it. His nursery, where bruises had been commonplace. He wondered if John had ever fallen from a window or a tree or a roof or a dog or a train platform or a tea trolly or a dovecot when he was a child. He wondered what kind of childhood injuries he could read from John’s body with his hands and eye. From a warm, answering body, not a corpse. Not green.

“John. Tea.” And buttons, now. Mystery solved.

“Nfff.”

Sherlock slipped his feet, then legs, under the duvet. Warm. He sipped his tea before it cooled. He’d never talked to sleeping John before. Not intentionally; John tended to nod off when they worked the night through, around 3, before roused by coffee or tea or a hand on his shoulder. “Tea,” he said again. And John turned to him.

Tea on John’s spread out shirt was better than tea on his dressing gown. John’s _naked_ front was against his body, John’s hand was on his thigh. Curved on it. Seeking warmth? It was his right hand, not the one that had been pressed around Sherlock’s ribs. There were other points of contact that must be inadvertent. Knee, thigh, stomach. If John woke now, suddenly, he’d move away. He’d move his hand away. “The Bunsen burner and flask as an improvised kettle,” said Sherlock, as he’d speak to a sleeping dog who must not wake unhappily—dogs liked his voice and Sherlock liked dogs—“was a success. There were sugar sachets in the knife drawer. The biscuits were poorly hidden in the cooker. Your shirt was buttoned when you took it off.”

There was movement under the pillow over John’s head. There was a heavy roundness now against his hip. John’s nose, John’s lips must be against his…nestling against his…there, warmth there, from his even breath. “You’re doing it wrong,” Sherlock explained to sleeping John. To himself. “You’re pulling apart your buttons, your tightly closed buttons. How would shooting me resolve your trauma, John?” John fell to sleep easily next to him. John continued to sleep peacefully next to him, hearing his voice, curling up to him, holding on to him, not thrashing in fear. Sherlock laid a hand on the pillow over his head. How did he breathe under there? “How do you dream of me?”

“Sh’lock.”

“Yes.”

“Nffft.”

“Your tea’s getting cold.”

No answer. Sherlock lifted the pillow. John. Hair light, a gleam in the dark. Light flesh against the dark duvet. Green and browns the duvet fabric would be, in the light. His neck disappearing under it. Sherlock could put a finger, two fingers, three fingers between the duvet and John’s sleeping neck … where his skin was warm, very warm, and smooth. Like satin, over a thin cushioning layer of fat. Not at all like touching a corpse. Hair wisping over Sherlock’s fingers at the top of his neck, hair that was dry now, warm and clean and possibly smelling of mint, as it had yesterday. There, at his hairline, another scar, an irregularity under the skin. He passed his fingertips over it and John said “Shrf,” and pressed closer to his hip. Sherlock flattened his fingers on John’s neck, letting them warm. If only; if he were lower, if he were to slide down, if he were to push underneath the covers, his hand down John’s back, he could touch that depression at the base of John’s spine; he could feel and know. His fingers, his hand, shaped themselves around John’s skull.

“If you’ve finished groping me,” said John, slightly muffled, “There’s tea?”

“No thanks to you,” said Sherlock.

John didn’t take his hand away quickly. He flexed it, he felt what he had hold of (Sherlock, Sherlock’s thigh under silk and pajamas). Slid a little, under pressure. He flexed again, almost squeezed, and took his hand away. And stretched, and rolled over, and curled to sit up, taking the duvet up with him, exposing his back. And Sherlock thought, how comfortable a man John is, with whom to sit in bed. And handed him his cooled mug of tea.

“It’s cold. It’s still dark. Why is there cold tea?”

Irrelevant. “What do you dream about me? Why buttoned buttons?”

John scrubbed a hand across his face. “ _Why_ am I awake?”

“Why would you shoot me instead of Moriarty?”

“You mean now? Christ, Sherlock. It’s freezing in here. Did the heat go out too?”

“Possibly. You’re avoiding answering.”

“I’m refusing answering. You’re like ice. Get some clothes on. Is there hot water?”

“It’s hardly freezing, I’m not cold, and you can get up to check. Refusing why?” John sucked air through his teeth and shifted his (warm, lovely warm) thigh away. Sherlock pushed on. “The Golem didn’t give you nightmares but I do?”

“Here.” John held out the mug of cold tea. “Get out.”

“Why would you rehearse shooting me instead of an enemy? Instead of the cabdriver? Instead of whom? What would that accomplish?”

“Oh, God.” The headboard rocked under John’s thump. “Let it go. I was joking.”

“You weren’t.”

“Let it go.”

“Or?”

Not a pet, no matter what Moriarty said. But part dog; bulldog; Sherlock liked dogs. Happily shared a bed with one named Toby when he was a boy. John moved suddenly, pulled aside Sherlock’s dressing gown, screwed his T-shirt up in his fist. “How’d you get the burns?”

 _Oh. That._ “Not the same thing, John.”

“My nightmares, your nightmares.” Stern face, in the shadows, serious. Not angry. Sherlock could see his aureoles contract; had their color in his mind, now.

“I don’t have...”

“Your business, my business. None of mine, none of yours. Right?” He tugged on the shirt. Sherlock covered John’s hand with his; John’s warm hand.

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re shooting me in your dreams. It’s patently my business. Threat or sex?”

John made an unclassifiable noise. “Cake or death?”

“Pardon?” John didn’t unclench his fist. Why... _Cake?_ Sherlock had the sudden urge to do...more with their joined hands. With his grip on John. If they’d been standing, he’d have pulled him about, run him down the stairs, taken off down the street... Or. Oh. Possibility. “Left behind,” he said. John’s hand opened under his, flat against Sherlock’s wrinkled up shirt. “You don’t...scars on your back, back of your arms, shoulder scar, shot from behind. Shot and left?”

“Not...”

“I don’t leave you,” said Sherlock, sharply. Louder than he meant. “You can _keep up_.”

“Shit,” said John.

“I fixed that! You can run! Or you can stay the hell out of my way.” He was yelling outright now, at John, in bed, in the dark, holding tea, and it was stupid. But he was right. “ _I’m not the problem._ ”

“ _You fucking are!_ ” yelled John back, over a siren, over an ambulance tearing down the street, flashing blue sparks through the window. New Sprinter, thought Sherlock, and already a bald tire front right. He wasn’t, was he? His heartbeat had accelerated. So had John’s.

“I got shot,” said John. “I just...got shot.” He pulled his hand away, from Sherlock’s chest, over Sherlock’s thumping heart. “Murray came and dragged me back. You do leave me, you bastard. Leave me all the time. Calling through doors like an idiot. Strapped to a bomb because you couldn’t be arsed to bring me along!”

“Which shooting me helps.”

“Maybe.” Deeper breaths. Slower beats. “No. They’re dreams. It’s all right,” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock. John was an idiot. He’d liked being careless with John. “They’re pointless and exhausting disturbances. They have to stop. And stop shooting me.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘threat or sex’?”

“You’re finding a therapist who’s competent. Or drugs. Good drugs.” Drugs were good, for many things. “And sleep. You’ll eat and _wear your pajamas_ and relax, you granite-headed ridiculous man, and you will undo your buttons properly and sleep.”

“ _I was asleep! Twice!_ ”

Cold tea was everywhere.

The lights blazed on in the room, in the flat, up the street.

Sherlock stared at John’s exposed body while mopping tea negligently with John’s tell-tale shirt.

He smiled. John looked _good._

***

John never liked pajamas, the little imitation suits. The legs rode up between the sheets. The jacket twisted round. The buttons were uncomfortable They were too loose and too binding, both. He’d borrowed a nightshirt once, but had had it pushed up to his waist by impatient hands too quickly to have formed an opinion. Underwear or T-shirt or nothing at all was best, depending on the company, weather, and quality of the sheets.

Present company was giving that quirk of lips that was a smile (totally inappropriate, we’re arguing here!) at his nothing-at-all like .., well, like Sherlock’s look through a lens at a perfect pollen spore retrieved from a victim’s moustache. It was approving, acquisitive, and pleased.

It was...sexy. Or would have been, had John not known better.

“Here, that’s my shirt. My duvet, my sheets, my pillow.”

“Your tea. You do look cold.” Sherlock tossed the wet shirt over his shoulder, to the floor. “The dampness is minimal. You could fetch...”

“I’m not wearing those things you bought, Sherlock. And on that subject—” He stopped. There was no best thread to yank to unravel the knotted net tonight had closed around him. And Sherlock was _pleased_ with something, the bastard, and was watching him now with a different concentration that made the hair on his arms rise. Right, no shirt, no pants. He drew the (dry) sheet over his lap and Sherlock went “Hmm.” Sherlock shrugged off his dressing gown and pulled his blue T-shirt over his head.

“Take mine,” he said, offering (peace offering?) it across the duvet. When John didn’t reach for it, Sherlock pressed it into his hand. It was warm from Sherlock’s body and seductively fine, by quality or wear. John put it on, defiantly, maybe, and Sherlock looked pleased a different way. John wasn’t watching his mouth so much as his neck, his clavicles, his chest, his ribcage, the fine dark hairs above the low-slung waist of his pajama bottoms and the subtle swell of his stomach. “How’s the rib?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to be solicitous. Whipping the shirt off like that must have hurt.

“My hair isn’t clean.”

“Not what I asked,” said John. The light was awfully bright. The three scars were clear on his side, without Sherlock’s arm hiding them. He knew Sherlock knew he was looking.

“Go on, then,” Sherlock offered. He raised his right elbow; and John leaned forward and lightly touched the rib (and Sherlock hissed) and then...for no reason at all...curved his hand around, as before, to fit Sherlock’s side. Which made Sherlock’s eyes go from sexy to obscene. His elbow came down, holding him there, for three long seconds. “Also. Good,” said Sherlock, seemingly to himself.

Then John was released, and Sherlock leaned back, snapping off the bedside lamp. He shoved the dressing gown aside and inserted himself under the sheet and duvet. Head on John’s pillow, the one with the mint tucked in, hand underneath, eyes closed. “Go to sleep.”

John sat there. In the dark, in his own bed, in his borrowed comfy shirt, with his bum cooling in the cold from the window. Looking at his mad mate. _1: I am done with therapists and therapy. 2: I’m not cleaning that sink. 3: Fuck buttoned, unbuttoned, do not even ask. 4: Sherlock has demonstrated ability to make tea; 5:... Threat or sex?_

He pulled the covers over and slid down under them. “That whole lot’s going back,” he said. “Whatever made you think I’d wear silk?”

“Mmmm,” said Sherlock.

The bed was warm. Sherlock was quiet and there. John curled into his pillow. Closed his eyes.

“Naked then. Naked’s good,” said Sherlock.

“Loading,” said John. “Taking aim.” He shifted. He shifted toward warmth, into Sherlock’s knuckles against the base of his head.

“It’s normal. It’s perfectly conventional. You’ve shown...”

“It’s some kind of normal sometimes. And why...”

“It’s relaxed.”

“Why naked me and not naked you?”

“Because I don’t need it.”

John smothered a giggle; hysterical; Sherlock must have felt it. “I need being naked and you don’t?”

“You don’t need...you do. I do, don’t need, I’d prefer. I,” said Sherlock, seemingly gathering his wits, “am not needed naked, by anyone. In the course of,” he gestured, over John’s neck, stirring air—“daily...being. Around the flat.”

“I wouldn’t object,” said John. And held his breath.

“It’s cold,” said Sherlock, flatly. A pause. “You looked down my pants.”

“I did,” said John, stuffing down another laugh. “It was fine. It’s all fine.” Sherlock’s fingers were at his hairline again, stroking that spot. That old scar.

It was absurdly easy to find this all right, to fall asleep now, next to Sherlock. Sherlock with a hand on his neck. John supposed he should be anxious. Annoyed. Aroused. He felt himself sinking.

“I don’t have nightmares,” said Sherlock quietly.

John jerked back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I was careless once; I miscalculated. It doesn’t matter, now.” His fingers slid into John’s hair. “How did you get it clean?”

“Your hair’s not dirty,” said John. _It matters. God, please, let us live._ “Don’t leave me.”

“I don’t,” said Sherlock. He settled closer, against John’s back, bare chest to his shirt, soft trousers to his naked thighs. Warm, and there, until John slept.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally finished and posted in October 2011.
> 
> Imagery Rehearsal Therapy is a technique being used to treat PTSD nightmares in Afghanistan and Iraq war vets, among others. While awake, the patient practices rewriting the nightmare with a different, more positive, outcome. Opinions vary as to its success.


End file.
